“Slipper Point will always mean to me the spot where I spent some of the happiest moments of my life!”
“And I say—the same!” echoed Sally.
GYPSY FLIGHT, by Roy G. Snell
CHAPTER I
THE DARK LADY
Rosemary Sample adjusted her jaunty cap carefully, smoothed out her well-tailored suit, then lowering her head, stepped from her trans-continental airplane.
Oh yes, that was Rosemary’s plane. Rosemary was still young, and she looked even younger than her years. A slender slip of a girl was Rosemary, rather pretty, too, with a touch of natural color and a dimple in each cheek, white even teeth, smiling eyes of deepest blue.
Strange sort of person to have a huge bi-motored plane with two 555 horse-power motors and a cruising speed of one hundred and seventy miles per hour. It cost seventy thousand dollars did that airplane. Yet this slip of a girl was its captain, its conductor, its everything but pilot, as long as it hung in air. Rosemary was its stewardess—and that meant a very great deal.
Rosemary stepped across the cement runway with a buoyant tread. “Life,” she thought with a happy tilt of her head, “is just wonderful! It is perfection itself.”
Rosemary loved perfection. And where may one find perfection of high degree if not in a great metropolitan airport? Those giant silver birds of the air, their motors drumming in perfect unison, wheeling into position for flight—how perfect! The touch of genius, the brain and brawn of the world’s greatest has gone into their making. And as to the care of them, Rosemary knew that the most valuable horse in the world never received more perfect treatment.
The depot, too, was perfect. Its hard white floor was spotless. The ticket sellers, the loitering aviators, even the black-faced redcaps somehow appeared to fit into a perfect picture.
“The travelers and their luggage,” she whispered, “they too fit in. No shabby ones. No drab ones. Per—”
She did not finish for of a sudden, as if caught and banged against a post, her picture was wrecked, for a young man apparently unsuited to the place had dashed through the depot’s outer door and, grasping her by the arm, said in a low hoarse whisper:
“I must speak to you personally, privately.”
For a space of ten seconds there was grave danger that Rosemary would deviate from the path of duty, that she would smash Rule No. 1 for all airplane hostesses into bits. “Courtesy to all,” that was the rule. And in the end the rule won.
Getting a steady grip on herself, the girl glanced about, noted that the small room to the right was at that moment vacant, motioned her strangely distraught visitor—who, if appearances could be trusted, must have slept the night before in an alley and fought six policemen single-handed in the morning—inside, after which she closed the door.
“Than—oh thank you!” the young man gasped.
Then for a period of seconds he seemed quite at a loss as to what he might say next.
This gave the girl an opportunity for a swift character analysis. She was accustomed to this. She had flown for two years. Four hundred thousand miles of flying were down to her credit. Passengers, usually ten of them, flew with her. It was her duty to keep them comfortable and happy. To do this she must know them, though she had seen them but for an hour.
“He’s not as bad as I thought,” was her mental comment. “He’s not been drinking. He needs sleep. There’s a lot of trouble somewhere. But it’s not his trouble—at least not much of it. He needs help. He—”
As if reading this last thought, the youth gripped her arm to exclaim:
“You must help me!”
“All right.” Rosemary displayed all her teeth in a dazzling smile. “That’s my job. How shall I help you?”
“You’re flying west to Salt Lake City. Plane leaves in half an hour. I must have a place in that plane.”
“I’m sorry.” Rosemary truly was. She had seen most of the other passengers. They promised to be rather dull. But this young man—“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “The trip was sold out forty-eight hours ago.”
“I know—” The young man’s tone was impatient. “But—but it must be arranged. Here!” He crowded a small roll of bills into her hand. “You can fix it. I can’t. You know who they are. There must be no fuss. No one must know. You find one. You know folks; you can pick the right one. Surely there’s one of them that will wait until the night plane. That’s not sold out yet.
“Be-believe me!” His eyes were appealing as he saw her waver. “It’s not for myself. If it were, I’d never ask it. It—it’s for a thousand others.”
“No,” Rosemary was saying under her breath, “it’s not for himself. And so—”
“All right,” she said quietly, “I’ll try.”
She went away swiftly, so swiftly he could not catch at her arm to thank her.
On entering the main waiting room of the airport, the young stewardess looked quickly about her. Twenty or more people were in the room. Which were passengers, which mere sightseers? She knew some of the men who were to be with her on this trip. They were old-timers, mostly traveling men. She would not dare suggest to one of these that he sell his reservation.
Her gaze at last became fixed upon a youth. “Must be about twenty,” she told herself. “He’s going. First trip. Nervous, and trying not to show it. He’ll welcome a delay, like as not. Have to try.” She took in his ready-to-wear suit, his $5.99 variety of shoes, wondered vaguely why he was going by air at all, then plunged.
“You mean to tell me,” he was saying slowly three minutes later, “that some man will give me fifty dollars just to wait six hours for the next plane? Say! I’d wait a week. Where’s the money?”
“Here! Here it is.” Rosemary felt a great wave of relief sweep over her. She wanted to ask this youth a dozen questions, but there was not time.
“What’s the name of the man that’s taking your reservation?” the ticket seller asked of the ready-to-wear youth.
“Why I—”
“I’ll have that for you right away, Charlie,” Rosemary broke in.
“O.K.” Charlie turned to other matters.
Ten minutes later Rosemary received the second shock of the day and from the same source. Someone touched her on the arm. She wheeled about to find herself looking at a young man in spotless linen, faultless gray suit and traveling cap. In his hand he carried a dark brown walrus-hide bag.
“I—I—why you—” she stammered.
“Quick change artist.” He smiled broadly. “Got hold of my bag, you see.”
It was the young man who only a brief time before did not fit into her picture of perfection.
“Di-did you get it?” he asked. There was a slight twitch about his mouth.
She nodded. “Step over here.”
“You’re a marvel!” he murmured. “I can’t tell you—”
“Don’t,” she warned.
“You’ll have to give your name and address here,” she said in a brusque tone. Then, “Here Charlie. This is the man.”
“Name and address, please,” said Charlie.
“Danby Force, Happy Vale, Connecticut,” said the young man promptly.
“Goodbye,” said Rosemary, “I’ll be seeing you.” And indeed she should—many times. The power behind all things, that directs the stars in their courses, that keeps all the little streams moving downhill and notes the sparrow’s fall, had willed that their paths should cross many times and in many curious places.
“There is time,” Rosemary told herself, “for a stroll in the open air before we take to the air.” Then, of a sudden, she recalled a curious sort of plane that had landed but a short time before. “Wonder if it’s still here.” She hurried out to the landing field.
“Yes, there it is! I must have a look.”
Speeding over the broad cement way, she crossed to a spot where a small
plane rested. Truly it was a strange plane. It had been painted to represent a gigantic dragon fly. Its planes seemed thin and gauze-like. This, she knew, was pure illusion.
“But how beautiful!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, it is beautiful.” To her surprise, she was answered by a blonde-haired girl who had just stepped round the plane.
“Is—is it yours?” she asked in surprise.
“But yes.” The strange girl spoke with a decided French accent. “I am the one they call Petite Jeanne. You have heard of me. No? Ah well, it does not matter.” She laughed a silvery laugh. She was, Rosemary noted, a slender girl with beautifully regular features and dancing eyes. “Dancing feet too,” she whispered to herself. “They are never still.”
Unconsciously she had been following the girl round the plane. There, on the other side, she met with a surprise. Seated on bright colored bundles, close to a small fire over which a small teakettle steamed, was a large, stolid-looking gypsy woman and a small gypsy girl.
“So the gypsies are taking to the air!” she exclaimed. “And you—” she turned to the blonde girl, “are you a gypsy too?”
“As you like.” A cloud appeared to pass over the girl’s face. It was followed by a smile. “Anyway,” she said, “I am flying now. And you, since you are flying always, you may see me again in some strange new place.
“Indeed,” she added after a brief silence, “Madame Bihari here, who is my foster mother, was telling my fortune with cards.”
“Your fortune?”
“But yes.” The girl laughed merrily. “What would a gypsy be if she did not tell fortunes?
“And in my fortune,” she went on, “I was to meet a stewardess of the air. This meeting was to lead me into strange and mysterious adventures. And now here you are. Is it not strange? It is very wonderful, truly it is, this telling fortunes with gypsy cards. You must try it.”
“I will,” replied Rosemary. “But now it is almost time for my plane. I’ll hope to be seeing you. I—”
“One moment please!” Bending over, the blonde girl picked up three small sticks. “Wherever I land,” she went on, “I shall put two sticks so, and one stick so, close to the door of the airport depot. If you see it you will know that I have been there and may be there still.”
“I get you,” Rosemary laughed, “but what do you call that?”
“It is our gypsy patteran,” the girl explained soberly. “It is a custom older than any of your country’s laws.”
“Good! I’ll be seeing you!” Rosemary hurried away. She was not soon to forget this blonde-haired Petite Jeanne, whom so many of you already know well. Nor was she to forget that even the gypsies had taken to the air.
After casting a practiced eye over the interior of her ship, adjusting a chair and looking to her supply of newspapers and magazines, Rosemary stepped down from the plane into the sunlight of a glorious day.
A porter was wheeling the baggage cart into position, the chain was being dropped. In an even tone through a microphone the announcer was saying, “Plane No. 56 leaving for Omaha, Cheyenne, Salt Lake City and points west, now loading.”
“We’ll be in the air soon,” Rosemary whispered to herself. The faintest possible thrill ran up her spine. For this very-much-alive girl, even after two years of flying, could never quite still the joy and thrill of flight.
Then the sound of an excited voice reached her ears.
“I must take the bag with me in the cabin,” a woman’s voice was saying.
“But that is contrary to the rules,” the attendant at the gate replied politely. “The cabin is small. A brief case is quite all right. But bags, no. If everyone took a bag inside, there’d be no getting about. We will give you a check for your bag. It will be locked in the baggage compartment. Nothing can happen to it. In case of loss, the Company’s millions insure you.”
“But I want—” The tall, dark-complexioned owner of the bag cast a sweeping glance over her fellow travelers who stood awaiting their turn at the gate. She appeared to suspect them, one and all, of having designs on her bag.
The much-traveled commercial passengers smiled indulgently, two ladies gave the dark-complexioned one a half sympathetic glance. But the young man who had, through Rosemary’s good offices, so recently acquired a place on the plane favored her with not so much as a look. He appeared to have become greatly interested in a small yellow plane that was just then taking off.
“He just seems to be interested in that plane.” The thought leapt unbidden into the young stewardess’ mind. “He’s more interested in that woman than he’d like anyone to know. I wonder why?”
“Oh well, if you insist!” The dark-complexioned lady dropped her bag, grabbed impatiently at the check offered for it, then hurrying past Rosemary without affording her so much as a look, climbed aboard the plane to sink into the seat farthest to the rear.
“As if she proposed to watch the others all the way to Salt Lake City,” was Rosemary’s mental comment, although she knew the thought to be unwarranted and absurd.
Ten minutes later, with all on board, they were sailing out over the city. Rosemary settled down to the business of the hour. She loved her work, did this slender girl. Hers was an unusual task. She performed it unusually well. She was in charge of the “ship” while it was in the air. She was hostess to the ten passengers entrusted to her care. At once her alert mind took up the problems of this particular journey. She smiled as two of the four traveling men launched forth on a discussion of the country’s economic problems. “That settles them,” she told herself. The third traveling man buried himself in the latest newspaper, and the fourth dragged out papers from his brief case to pour over figures. Two rather flashily dressed young men, who had not slept the night before, asked for pillows. They were soon checked off to the land of dreams. Two middle-aged women began discussing the feeding and training of children.
All this left to Rosemary’s care only the dark-complexioned woman in a rear seat and the young man of great haste. “A very quiet trip,” she told herself. In this, as all too often, she was mistaken.
“What can I do for you?” She flashed a smile at the dark-complexioned woman. She received no smile in reply.
“Nothing.”
“Magazine? A pillow?”
“No. Nothing.” The woman’s black and piercing eyes were fixed upon her for a full ten seconds. Then they shifted to the world beneath the swiftly gliding plane.
Rosemary was neither dismayed nor disheartened. There were many such people. All they wanted was to be left alone with their thoughts. Perhaps flashing through the air thousands of feet from the ground brought serious and solemn thoughts to some types of mind. She rather guessed it did.
But how about the young man of great haste? He intrigued her. Perhaps he was the kind who liked to talk. If he were, then perhaps he would tell secrets. Men often told her secrets. She always guarded them well. “He may tell me why he was in such great haste,” she thought to herself.
Some people like to talk, some to listen. It is the duty of an airplane stewardess to talk or to listen as occasion demands. Rosemary was prepared in this case, as in all others, to do her duty.
“Strange sort of profession, yours,” the young man said, smiling.
“It’s wonderful work!” Rosemary knew on the instant that she would do most of the talking.
For half an hour he asked questions and she answered them. His questions, never very personal, were about the life an airplane stewardess leads. She answered them honestly and frankly. “He honestly wants to know,” she told herself. “He is the type of person who absorbs knowledge as a sponge does water. Delightful sort. I’d like to know him better.”
“But look!” he exclaimed suddenly. “The propeller on this side is gone!”
“Oh, no!” She laughed low. “It’s not gone. Just going around so fast you can’t see
it.”
“But I saw it revolving when we started.”
“We were going slowly then.”
“So it is really still there, producing tremendous power, helping pull us along—tons of people, mail and steel—at a hundred and seventy miles an hour! And yet we cannot see it. Marvelous! Unseen power!
“Do you know,” he said, “that’s like God’s influence on our lives. You can’t see it, you can’t feel it as we feel things with our hands; yet it is there, a tremendous force in our lives.”
“Yes,” she agreed soberly, “it must be like that.”
At that moment she found herself liking this strange young man very much. It was, she believed, because of his deeply serious thoughts.
Having discovered that the two traveling salesmen had settled all the nation’s problems and were looking for reading material, she excused herself, gripped the seat ahead to steady her, then moved swiftly forward.
With all her passengers happy once more, she dropped into the one vacant seat to indulge in a few moments of quiet meditation. Into this meditation there crept, as she closed her eyes, a slim girlish figure. Blonde-haired and smiling, she stood beside a plane that resembled a dragon fly.
“The flying gypsy,” she whispered. “But is she a gypsy?” To this question she found no answer.
That this slender girl was an interesting person she did not doubt. She found herself hoping that the gypsy woman’s fortune telling might prove a success—that they might meet many times.
“Mystery and adventure, those were the words she used.” Mystery and adventure. Well, this day had not been without its mystery. There was the strange man, Danby Force, and his urgent need for going somewhere. Then too there was the dark woman with the bag which she had all but refused to trust away from her, even in the locked compartment of a trans-continental plane. What could she have in that bag? The girl thought of one instance when it had been believed that high explosives carried in a bag on an air-liner had brought disaster to a score of persons. “But of course it would not be that,” she told herself.
The Third Girl Detective Page 87
